


thranduillion

by vellichorian (auburncursed)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Blood Adoption, Child Abuse, Crossover, Elf Harry, Elf Harry Potter, Elves, Fake Science, Gen, Immortal Harry Potter, Immortality, Non Canonical Immortal, Not Canon Compliant, OOC, Parent Thranduil, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Protective Thranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-13 19:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auburncursed/pseuds/vellichorian
Summary: The Dursleys finally go too far, and the Freak [christened at birth Harry James Potter], battered and beaten bloody by his kin, runs away towards the woods opposite the holiday homes where they were staying. The forest there, though now a mockery of what it had been, was once known as the Greenwood, and the last king still remains...// adopted elf!harry w/ Thranduil, as well as Elladan & Elrohir //





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear (most likely imaginary) readers~~  
> I finally joined AOL today, and found this old bit of fic on my computer. I've mostly been a silent fanfic-reader, but I now present *dundadun* my first ever shared fanwork. It's a bit dusty and I haven't included much Elvish b/c I'm not a hardcore Elvish person, but I am looking forward to reviving this story <3 Enjoy, and please comment, it would absolutely make my day!

The boy, the Freak, the one that was constantly told he was unwanted, thought the Dursleys had finally gone too far. They had gone to the English countryside for a present for Dudley, for being Such A Good Boy This Year, and rented a little cottage. Harry had been exhausted from the travelling, and, waking up at six, and pulling his old rags of Dudley’s old clothes over his head, tiptoed downstairs to arrange the newspapers, find plates, and make breakfast. He had burnt his hand on the pan while trying to make the bacon in the morning, and had cried when the loud clatter of the pan falling, burning onto his shoe which quickly jerked out of the way, the painful-numb heat of his hand and the now-blackened bacon and yelling from Aunt Petunia became too much and he finally curled up in the corner and cried and waited for the blows that would soon come, and the shouts and yelling. He had done Wrong, and so would be punished.

And like he knew, they came. Vernon woke up to the sound of the shrieks and was suitably annoyed, it would have only been Normal to discipline the child, in any case. He stormed into the kitchen, screaming, annoyed, puffy jowls jiggling as he exerted himself, kicking at the Freak. He soon fell into rhythm with the motion, and it took Petunia half an hour before pulling him off to stop the man punching and kicking at the bloody, red-eyed boy curled up, sobbing quietly and clutching his hand.

After his parents had left, Dudley, munching the slightly burnt bacon—it wasn’t so bad, after all, and after a pinch of salt, rather nice, and he was hungry – managed to get a few kicks of his own to the obliging boy on the floor. He didn’t even run, or shout – it was even better than the normal Harry-hunting they normally “played”.

When finally all the attacks stopped, he managed to crawl out of the kitchen, clutching at his arm, limping, he decided he would run away… He’d read about it at the library at school, and even if Aunt Petunia was always Right, and Normal, maybe he could find someone to take him in, maybe someone could find a use for him, and he’d be a Good boy, and try his best to be normal, but maybe they wouldn’t mind so much, and he could do all the housework and clean the beds and make breakfast, and not even have to go to school so he wouldn’t be a Bother and could make dinner and lunch too, maybe. Deep down, though, he knew that the idea was too good to be true…

He decided to leave, though. Maybe he’d die, and stop being a Useless Waste of Space.  Crawling out of Lavender Cottage, pitiful, bloody, beaten, tear-tracks down his face, he shuffled his way through the row of dark holiday homes, towards the forest at the edge, where they wouldn’t find him, crawling, full of fog and mystery. He would not stop, because maybe the Police would find him, he could be Punished again, and Aunt Petunia always said the police were meaner than Normal people and should keep their noses out of everyone’s business. They might even give him back to Aunt Petunia. The boy shuddered.

Having gotten to the end of the row, and trying to get past the wooden fence with a cry of pain as he got a splinter in an old injury Dudley’d reopened in the morning, managed to get through, crawling under the old musty boundary that kept animals at bay, and the darker aspects of what was once known as Mirkwood, away from the innocents at holiday.

Finally letting tiredness take over him, he stumbled several meters more, finally collapsing next to an old ditch at the edge of the forest, sheltered from sight.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil hunted, with what could have been seen as almost a smile on his face. Humans and time and most of his Elves leaving, had made his Greenwood a tiny memory of what it once was, but he tended to it with care and though much smaller than the Mirkwood of old, it was almost as bright as it had been in the centuries past. Elladan and Elrohir were good friends, if unlikely ones who enjoyed trickery and jokes far too much. They reminded him of Legolas, though twin sons of Elrond had a much better grasp on the healing arts than his own little Greenleaf had.

As they rode on, he heard a slight moan- a cry of pain, perhaps, or just a small footstep of a creature upon a leaf. He turned his head toward the sound, it was at the end of the forest, most likely, near to where the mortals made their “holiday homes”. It could have been nothing, an old paranoid warrior, perhaps, but a glance at his elven companions showed him it couldn’t have been; their ears were taut, straining to catch the sound. It was early morning, and none of the race of man should be awake, really- they usually stayed asleep until past dawn, past nine, or even almost-noon on occasion. And it was the high-pitch of a youngling, and one most likely wounded, at that.

He nodded to them, he was the monarch of the forest, the eldest of their little group, and the most experienced in healing. Thranduil Elvenking looked into the deep distances.

“Come. We shall ride, friends. I wish to see who is infringing upon my terrority.”

And they looked back, glancing briefly, then urged their stallions on with a pace unseen by the race of men, gliding softly over the moss and leaves, twisting their paths beneath the oaky foliage, Thranduil at the lead.                                                                                                

* * *

 

 

Harry James Potter moaned softly on the ground, broken and hurt and tortured and abused; close to death, closer, coming ever closer, as his blood leaked onto the ground, and the old coarse dirt found its way into his wounds.

 

* * *

 

 

And then they were there…

With a bloody boy on the ground, eyes half-closed, bleeding and crying and so helpless and hurt. They stared for a second, indecisive, then the tallest one, with his silver-blonde hair stepped, forward, carefully wrapping his long fingers around the body, lightly carrying the child with haste, who was much too thin, he noticed, and looked him over with a tenderness not many saw in the often-harsh elf.

He looked sad, regretful, and burning with anger, they noted. Elladan came forward, first, his brother a pace behind him, and they both came to look down on the youngling. He couldn’t have been more than, what, seven, yet he was dying. Some monster of a human, or one of the few remaining orcs, perhaps, had been the one to hurt him.

Thranduil sighed. “He’s dying.” His voice was quiet.

The twins looked at the boy sadly. “A-are you sure..? Is there anything you can do, Thranduil-“ Elrohir began, but Thranduil silenced him with a look.

“I could- he’s bled out too much, it’s a rather new mortal technique, it could work, but-“ The Elvenking paused. “We might be able to save him with a blood transfusion, he’d be part-elven, I suppose… It could work, or fail disastrously…”

The two brothers looked at each other, and the dark-haired elves were in agreement. “Do it.” He nodded, absently tearing off a strip of his royal robe to bandage the biggest wounds, probing the other cut with his fingertips. “I- I can give the blood..” Elladan began shakily, but Thranduil looked affronted. “You?! You are still young in my eyes, Elladan, if you died, if it failed… No!” [he cared about them, in his own odd way] “I will do it. I have lived for a long time, it would not be a great loss if I died, Mirkwood is a ruin of what it once was. I am older, and stronger. I will.”

He carried the boy onto the saddle, and looked at them imperiously, reminding them he had once been, [and had never really stopped being, to be honest] an ancient, powerful, elf-Lord, and a King in his own right, that fiercely protected his people, and had once vowed to never stop doing such. “I am going to the healing rooms in the palace. "bring athelas, Elladan. Elrohir, do a quick search in the library for any rare books of healing that might relate.” Parting with that, he quickly urged his chestnut horse into a gallop and soon disappeared from even their keen elven sight.

 

* * *

 

They looked at each other, and prayed it would succeed, then reined their horses and rushed to do the tasks he’d asked of them; Elladan, quickly rushing to gather fresh kingsfoil, Elrohir combing the books in the library with careful haste.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil Elvenking took a deep breath and cut his arm with a long careful shave-slit [it hurt, a lot, but his face remained impassive as blood gushed from the shallow cut]

He collected the blood in a bowl, watching it drip for a second, then rushing back into action, murmuring old almost-forgotten songs of healing, sung what felt like eons ago, that his father had taught him when he was a boy.

 

* * *

 

 

The boy stayed, lying down on the white linen bed. He slept, he had been for several days, and the elf sitting beside him noted with satisfaction the slight differences, the calmer breathing, much slightly more pointed ears, the brighter soft glow to his hair, which had become the smallest bit more straight [the boy, Harry, had not been born an elf, and the change would be gradual, as he grew over the next years, as he became elven and not of men]. Thranduil put a cool hand on the boy’s side, with long pale fingers, and stroked the black locks with his hand, singing softly an old elvish rhyme.

He smiled, slightly. Casting a final glance at the little child- the half-elfling, his elfling, really- He looked back at the boy, and left, to get a bit of rest.

 

* * *

 

Elladan and Elrohir watched him go, and smiled warmly, walking to the youngling curled up on the bed and looked at him with a slight tenderness they showed to few people.

 

* * *

 

And finally, the child awoke. His eyes opened and they were a brilliant shade of emerald, and he looked around himself for a second, and started, pupils wide with fear and worry. Elladan, who had been watching him, and reading alternately, humming, had stood up with a small sigh, looking at the frightened little elfling, and tried to give him a peaceful smile—Elrohir was better at calming animals, and people, but he wasn’t so bad, either. The boy looked at him cautiously.

“What happened to you?”, the elf asked. “Why were you so- injured? Who hurt you?” He had tried to keep his voice calm, but the disgust and worry had risen it at the end—what kind of sick man would torture an infant, a child, an elfling?!

Harry cringed.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry cringed.

And said nothing, for a while, but finally Thranduil, who had come down to the room a half-hour later, managed to coax it out of him, tucking the boy into his side and soothing him in Elvish, acting quite fatherly [Legolas had been grown centuries ago, and had sailed, and Thranduil was really a very caring elf] and when he was finally calm and still, asking him.

They were sitting on an ornate fabric sofa, the little boy curled up, leaning against Thranduil as the elf patted his back softly, humming ancient tunes forgotten to history. "Now, child- can you tell me why you were so grieviously injured when we found you? Who hurt you?"

Harry was silent for about a minute, unsure whether to answer. Aunt Petunia always reminded him that Punishments were the family's little secret, and not to tell it to anyone else, but eventually he replied.

“Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon- and Dudley. I made a mistake and burnt the breakfast, so I was Punished….” His voice trailed off.

The Elvenking could only ponder in horror at what the boy was saying, feigning calm, but the elvish curses he whispered, softly, under his breath and the mostly [but not quite totally]-concealed fury in his silver eyes were noticed by Elladan, who shivered inwardly at the thought of what Thranduil would do to those who would try to kill their own kin, and a child, at that! Punishment, indeed! Those absolute- he cursed as well, softly so the boy would not hear, though he saw the other elf nod at him imperceptibly. And the son of Elrond wholeheartedly agreed. The boy’s—what was his name...? —relatives had been punishing him?! The red marks and swollen hand and bleeding wounds, it must have been torture for one so young. He waited a second, then asked, in soft English, quietly; “They punished you like that… a lot? And everyone else thought that was okay?!” Looking at Thranduil across from him, he muttered something undistinguishable under his breath.

The boy just looked up slightly, with those innocent shining-green eyes, and began to blurt out, after a pause; “Yes. Doesn’t everyone get Punished like that..? I-I don’t like it though… P-please don’t give me back to my Aunt and Uncle, I can help you and not be a Bother, and-“.

Thranduil was fuming. “-No!” His voice was loud, powerful, and angry, but he tried to soften it for the boy’s sake, and simplify his language to make it easier to understand for the youngling, “That- extreme punishment… abuse, that is  **not** normal, and I swear that we will not be giving you back to those…”, another ancient curse, “… Look _pen tithen,_ I- I promise you will never have to go back there, okay? If you want… you can stay with me, -and my friends Elladan, and Elrohir- This is Elladan, Elrohir’s somewhere else in the palace… Anyhow, youngling—what is your name, by the way?—yes, you can stay with us, or I could go into the mortal world and find a suitable family to foster you. It is your choice, but know that to save you—those relatives of yours almost killed you!!, and you nearly bled out… I did a blood transfusion to save you, and as the result, your blood is no longer that of your parents; you are at least half-elven now, and you are a different being with a different chance at life. “

Harry was a bit bewildered, but the youngster tried to respond, looking up at the tall elf with the silken white hair who was stroking his own black locks; “Uhm- well, I… My name is Frea- H-Harry, my name is Harry, Aunt Petunia calls me Freak sometimes though, b-but uhm-and I guess… I suppose I’d like to stay with you…?”

There was a slight pause, and the child, terrified of rejection, tried to appease him, make him want him, even if he wasn’t Normal or a Good boy, “I can- be useful and Good, and-“

Elladan, feeling a bit sickened, interjected; “No, it’s not that, just… Harí, in elven culture, we have very few elflings during our lifetime, usually, and it takes a full year for an elleth’s pregnancy, youngsters are important, and rare… And most all of the elves are gone, now, have sailed, or died. Thranduil, me and my twin, and several others… we stayed, and there have been no children of our race for thousands of years, it is a terrible crime to hurt a child, and especially one of your blood. And to save you, the Elvenking-“

The boy’s voice was soft, but Elladan paused nonetheless; “Uh, mister. Well- what is the Elvenking…?”

“His name is Thranduil." He gestured at the blonde elf. He was, is King of the Greenwood, the forest we are now. It used to be a great elvish kingdom, just like Rivendell, or Lothlórien, but they are all paltry imitations of what they were, the glory and natural beauty I remember. When we found you, you had been bleeding, wounded for quite some time, and most of your blood was soaked into the ground, or polluted. You were dying, _pen tithen_ , and Thranduil saved you with his blood, which helped you fight off the infection. It changed you, though, and you are now of his blood- elven blood. As I was saying, little one, we cherish children, they are few and precious. I would be glad to have you here… Thranduil-“

“Yes, of course.” The Elvenking nodded, “I would never make you go back there.”

 

* * *

 

Elladan came down the stairs, lightly and with grace. He cocked his head to the side, slightly. “What did I miss, gwanunig nîn...?”

Elrohir smiled with actual warmth, the young elfling tucked against his side eyes half-closed, and flipped through a page on a book; “He’s staying with us.” He ruffled the little one’s dark hair with care.

 Elladan raised his eyebrow, then broke into a grin. “It’s been… so many centuries since I’ve been with a little one."

The twins shared a smile.


End file.
